Wednesday, July 20, 2016

NOTE TO READER(S): As
promised in the last post, here is the travelogue of our move from Alaska to
New Mexico. Frankly, in the time lapse since the last post, we could have
walked back to Alaska. My apologies for the extended stretches between posts. I
have a collection of excuses, including crappy internet service, a new computer
and getting settled. Thanks for hanging in there.

I am an unrepentant
planner; always have been. Given any event or trip I develop a detailed plan on
how things will not, ultimately,
transpire. The drive down to our new home was no different. I pored over The Milepost, checking out distances
between various towns through Canada and potential lodging. The goal was to only
drive during the daylight hours, which are limited in the North during February
and required intensive research into sunrise/sunset hours at various points
along the way. I’d go into all the other minutiae researched in the planning,
but suffice it to say I was potty-trained with a cattle prod.

We started the trip
by going to Anchorage where we spent three days with our daughter’s family just
to make sure they were ecstatic to see us leave. The real drive began on
February 28th, with the 330-mile stretch to Tok, Alaska. Things were
just hunky-dory until just before we hit the half-way point of Glennallen. At
that point, our hunky-dory became a heaving-dory. Frost heaves were the only
thing I hadn’t taken into consideration.

Fast Eddy's in Tok is a good place to stay.

For those unfamiliar with
frost heaves, they are sections of road that rise and fall from the formation
and expansion of ice under the roadbed. The result changes a flat stretch of
road into a sine wave. Try as road engineers might, they can never completely
eliminate the issue of frost heaves, but whoever was responsible for the
stretch of road between Glennallen and Tok saw the futility of their efforts
and said, “Screw it! Slap the asphalt down and let the drivers worry about them.”
The wavy condition of the road slowed our progress to 35 mph for extended
stretches. By the time we limped into Tok, we felt like bobblehead dolls.

Road conditions
changed as we left Tok and headed for the Canadian border: the frost heaves got
worse. While the road smoothed out at little when we got into Canada, things
got a very bumpy at the Canadian Customs checkpoint. Not wanting to risk
shipping them, I had two antique long arms with me: a rifle made in 1869 and a
musket made in 1836. I had been warned to make sure I declared them when
entering Canada so was prepared when we drove up to the dour-faced agent at the
window. After providing our passports and proof of vehicle insurance the real
inquisition began.

Agent: Do you have
any alcohol or tobacco with you?

Me: Yes, we have half
a bottle of wine.

Agent, eyeing me
suspiciously: Do you plan to sell it or give it as a gift?

I gave a brief
thought to asking what a used bottle of wine might bring on the black market,
but decided to play it straight: No, sir, it is for personal consumption, when
we are not driving.

Agent, looking at our
passports and typing into a computer: What is the purpose of your travel into
Canada?

Me: We are moving
from Alaska to New Mexico.

Agent, after reading
something on the computer: Do you plan to reside in Canada?

Me, certain there isn’t
a New Mexico, Canada: No, we are only passing through to get to our new home in
the United States. I do need to let you know I am transporting two antique
firearms.

At that point, I
instantly became a dire threat to the security of Canada and was sternly
informed the agent would be keeping our passports. He then directed me to pull
over to a parking area and wait for a security agent for further instructions.

Upon very close
inspection of the antiques, there was great consternation on the part of the
Canadians that neither of the guns had serial numbers. Eventually I convinced
them guns over 130 years old weren’t likely to have serial numbers, since they
were made individually, by hand. Satisfied I wasn’t likely to launch an assault
of any sort with a muzzle loader, they collected my $25 to transport the guns
through the country, returned our passports and sent us on our merry way.

We made Whitehorse
after dark, just as it started to snow. My research showed the hotel was next
to a large parking lot perfect for easy parking of the truck and trailer.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t part of the hotel property. We were, however, allowed
to park behind the hotel’s bar and schlep everything, including the dogs,
around the building to get to our room.

The third day,
Whitehorse, YT to Muncho Lake, BC, was supposed to be the longest distance we
would drive in Canada. I had planned on ten hours of driving. There were
issues, however. While the aforementioned frost heaves, patches of ice on the
road and light snow slowed us down, it was the bison that brought us to a halt.

Road hogs.

More than three
decades of Alaskan living offered plenty of opportunity to deal with large ungulates
on the roadway. However, moose normally move off the roadway with little or no
urging. Not so with bison. Bison are under the impression they own the road and
fully expect the driver to recognize that fact. The occasional individual or
pair of road hogs slowed progress, sometimes even causing a brief stop. A
novelty at first, the game changed considerably when we ran into a herd parked
in the middle of the highway. A Canadian standoff ensued. Stopping short of the
group, we waited for the surly crowd to disperse. No cooperation on their part.
After ten minutes we inched forward, moving completely onto the left shoulder
of the road. Begrudgingly the bison moved out of the way, glaring at us as we
squeezed through. I’m exceedingly glad one didn’t get aggressive, as I’m sure
an insurance claim would have met with derisive laughter and denial.

A casual check-in after 8pm

After more than
twelve hours of driving we pulled into the Double G Service towing, garage, gas
station, diner and motel at the far end of Muncho Lake. I had called to make a
reservation before we left Anchorage. I was told that if we arrived after 8 pm,
to look for our name on one of the six rooms of the log structure. (I rarely endorse a business, but for Double G I will gladly make an exception. The
accommodations are rustic, to be sure, but the hospitality can’t be beat and
the food is delicious. Get the breakfast.)

It snowed constantly
between Muncho Lake and Dawson Creek. The Canadians deal with snow a little
differently than in Alaska. In Alaska, the snow plows try to keep up with the
snowfall, then sand is applied to the road surface. In Canada, snowfall is
greeted with copious amounts of pea gravel. That’s it, just pea gravel. The
result is oncoming traffic sprays you with pebble-laden slush that dries to a grimy film.

Canadian road grime.

After leaving Dawson
Creek the snow stopped abruptly about 100 miles out of Edmonton. In fact, it
not only cleared up, it warmed up to fifty degrees. It was a beautiful evening
when we stopped in Wetaskiwin, Alberta.

We crossed back into
the U.S. with some trepidation about what customs would bring with the
firearms. I was asked to wait while a check was made to ensure they hadn’t been
reported stolen. While waiting, a couple of agents and several travelers stopped
by to check the guns out. Not because of security, but because of interest in
the history the guns represented. God bless the USA.

Our new home.

Once we were across
the border, the rest of the trip was a blur. I will say, however, that Montana
is beautiful, even if it did seem like we drove uphill the entire breadth of
the state. We arrived in Silver City on March 8th.In total the trip was just over 4,300 miles.